Not That Conventional
by Fionavar108
Summary: Sometimes, a guy needs a little help. Mild language. Continuation of "Acceptance," but can be read as a standalone.


It was happening again. She knew it.

Harriet Hayes was a very smart woman. And she knew Matt Albie very, very well. They'd been an on-again, off-again couple for years now, and she'd been in love with him for all that time.

So she could spot the signs and read the proverbial writing on the wall. Matt Albie was going to dump her. Again. Three times in the past two weeks, he'd bailed on her, canceling their plans at the last minute. Check that: once he just stood her up, apologizing profusely that he'd gotten caught up in a sketch he was writing.

It's not that he was lying—he almost certainly _had_ gotten absorbed in trying to finish up one last sketch before calling it a day. But she also knew that Matt loved her—he never, ever considered anything more important than spending time with her. Not even when they were "off again" and just friends (or enemies). Not even when there were other things that really should have taken priority.

The only times it had happened before, they had been dating, and Matt ended up breaking things off with her a few weeks later. If she had to guess, she'd say that Matt was unconsciously distancing himself from her in an effort to buffer himself from the inevitable emotional turmoil that followed their breakups.

But this time, there was a difference. They hadn't been fighting or arguing more like they usually did before a split. In fact, until the past couple weeks, things were going so well that she would have thought that they had a chance at something permanent this time. And about time, too.

She still thought they had that chance. And damnit, she wasn't going to let him go without a fight this time, she thought as she stalked toward Matt's office to confront him. But arriving at the door, she stopped short. Matt had company. Danny. Of course.

Eerily echoing her thoughts, Danny was raising his voice. "Don't give me that man, I know you. I can see the signs!"

"Oooh, you can see the signs," Matt mimicked sarcastically. "Does Miss Cleo know that you're muscling in on her business?" Matt paced around the room feverishly, alternately throwing darts at the bulletin board, taking slugs of lukewarm coffee, and running his hands through his hair. "Nothing's happening. Harri and I are fine."

"No. You're not. You might be able to fool her, and the cast, and everyone else around here, but I've had a front row seat to Matt-and-Harriet Relationship Dinner Theater from the very beginning. I know," he declared, shaking his index finger at Matt professorially.

"You know? You see the signs? What are you, Mister Psychic all of a sudden? Did you steal Jean Grey's powers without her noticing?"

"Yeah, this whole psychic thing that you keep riffing on? Not as funny as you think. And making a reference to the X-men doesn't do anything to dispel that nerd-boy image I have of you," Danny said.

Harriet struggled to hold back a snicker. Matt really was a big geek sometimes. Glancing around to see if her cover had been blown, she noticed that the usually bustling halls around Matt's office were empty for once. Good. She settled in, hunkering down to eavesdrop shamelessly. After all, this was her future they were talking about …

"Seriously man. I see it at rehearsal. You're writing less for Harriet these days, when usually she's in three quarters of everything you write—and starring in about half of your material. The only times you've slackened off on writing stuff for Harriet before, you were dating her and ended up dumping her a few weeks later," Danny said.

"That's crazy. You're implying that when I'm not happy with Harriet, I purposely try to give her less air time? I know that I screw up a lot, but I'm still a professional, and I write what's best for the show—and what's best for the show is plenty of material that makes use of Harriet's talents, regardless of whether I'm pissed off at her or not," Matt responded furiously.

"No no, that's not it," Danny broke in. "I didn't say you write less for Harriet when you're mad at her. I know you don't do that. I'm saying that when you're about to break up with her, you get into a funk and subconsciously, you try to stop writing anything that features her because you don't want to think about her.

"Maybe I'm just trying to be more even handed in my treatment of the cast," challenged Matt.

"Please. Your brain isn't that mature, little boy."

"Yeah, okay, true" Matt conceded.

"I think you just feel guilty because you know you're about to hurt her again. And you're in denial. What the hell, man? I thought you two were really going strong. Six months, minimal fighting, minimal door slamming, hell, from what I hear from Jordan, she's practically moved in to your place."

Harriet blinked, surprised. When she thought about it, when was the last time she'd slept two nights in a row in her own bed? Or two nights in a row without Matt in bed with her? Heck, he even stayed over on Saturdays sometimes, getting up to make her breakfast before she went to church on Sunday morning. A few times, he'd even come with her—a first in their relationship, and a gesture that touched her to no end.

After a brooding silence, Matt responded. "Yeah, we've been spending a lot of time together. But there comes a time when you realize that's as far as you can go. Harri wants to get married someday. And it's not going to happen with me," he said.

In the hall, tears came to Harriet's eyes. Never? She'd been so sure he wanted to spend his life with her. Hell, he'd actually told her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her that first day after they'd gotten back together. And she thought she'd made it pretty clear that such a prospect was a welcome one. What the heck?

"Why not? You can't tell me you don't want to marry Harriet," challenged Danny. "I know better."

"Nope. Not in the cards," Matt said.

"No?"

"Nope."

"You still carrying?" Danny asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Why yes, yes I am. My usual .357 Dirty Harry magnum in my waistband, and a .22 special in an ankle holster," cracked Matt.

"You know what I'm talking about," Danny said. "You still carrying around that ring you got for her?"

"Huh?"

"Do I stutter? That ring. That very expensive, exquisitely cut, diamond ring with the words 'To my lovely funny face' inscribed inside? The one you bought six months after your first ever date with Harriet? I know for a fact that you've always had it on you somewhere. For the past eight years. Come on, let me see it," teased Danny playfully, trying to lighten up the conversation.

"No."

"No what? No you won't let me see it?" Danny asked. "'Cause you know I'm still stronger than you. I'll mug you, I swear I will."

"No I don't have it anymore."

"What? Where is it?"

"My wall safe at home."

"Wall safe?" mouthed Harriet silently to herself.

"Okay, one: you have a wall safe? And two: what the hell, Matty. When did you stop wanting to marry Harriet? What is this now, just a comfortable routine for you? Harriet deserves better than that," demanded Danny angrily.

"Did you ever think maybe she's the one who doesn't want to marry me?" screamed Matt. "Maybe the problem's her. Not me! She. Doesn't. Want. Me.

"She wants to be married someday, JUST NOT TO ME," he hissed angrily. "So why keep this up? Why waste my time, and hers, just to prolong the inevitable?" Matt said.

"Matt, what the hell are you talking about. A blind man could see how crazy that girl is about you. Doesn't make sense to me, but hey … nobody said she was sane," shrugged Danny.

"Damn right," thought Harriet. "Wait … except for that 'sane' remark. Hey!"

Inside, the two continued arguing. "Yeah, I thought it was going to happen this time, too," Matt was saying. "The Hollywood version of the brick house and picket fence, 2.34 kids, all that. You know—the disgusting mansion in Bel Aire, the four hummers, five nannies and his-and-hers matching posses …

"But you know how I've gone to church a few times with Harriet? Each time, the preacher's thrown in a line about how only Christians will be saved, or about how important it is to marry a good Christian woman or man … and that's not me. I'm not somebody Harriet would ever think about marrying."

"That's crazy, Matty. You and Harriet can get married. There are churches—and synagogues, if it matters to you—that will do mixed faith ceremonies," Danny protested.

"Yeah. But that's not the issue. Harriet listens to her preacher. She's not going to ignore those sermons," Matty said. "So I'm doing her a favor. Without me in the picture, who's to say she won't find somebody she _can_ marry?" he added resignedly.

Harriet didn't wait around to see how the conversation ended. She walked sadly toward her dressing room, but the closer she got, the angrier she became. How dare he? How dare he presume to make the choice for her? All that noble self-sacrificing presumption, how dare he take away her opportunity to say yes. "Aaaaargh!" she screamed as she slammed the door to her dressing room, followed by, "Aaaahh! Holy shit!"

This second exclamation was in response to the fact that Jordan was in her dressing room. "Srrry, mmmph Rhiet ack!" she said eloquently, desperately trying to swallow a mouthful of … something … while trying to quiet her friend down.

"Jordan? What are you doing here? And how did you find my secret stash of malomars?" Harriet asked as she tried to get her heart rate back under control. "Not even Simon knows where I hide them, and I know he's tried to find them!"

"Sorry. Natural born snoop. Thanks, though—not only did you supply me with a sugar fix, but you just won me a very large amount of money," Jordan said.

"How's that?"

"Oh, uh, that is, I was just hiding from Jack and decided to come by and see if you wanted to have lunch," Jordan said changing the subject.

"Nice try. How did I just win you a large amount of money? Fess up. Now," Harried said, lowering her voice ominously.

"Um. Well," Jordan said, "after you and Matt got back together, we started a pool to see when the first knockdown, blowup fight between you two would be. But I think the important thing to note here, is that I had faith in you two. Everyone else thought you'd start bickering within a few weeks, but I put you down for five months. Since I'm the closest, I win!" she noted triumphantly.

"What makes you think Matt and I had a fight?" interrogated Harriet.

"Come on, Harriet. Nobody else can get you this mad but Matt. What'd he say this time? Come one, spill," she said, making herself comfortable in "girl talk" mode.

"Actually, we didn't have a fight," Harriet said, flopping down on the couch next to her friend sadly. "So I guess you didn't win anything. And neither did he, I guess. I just … I …" she broke off, sniffling.

"Harriet?" Jordan asked, alarmed. Feeling slightly guilty for making light of what was clearly troubling Harriet, she asked, "What happened?"

"I just. I had this feeling something was wrong—Matt's been acting weird lately—so I decided for once to be mature about it and go talk about it."

"And?"

"Danny was in there."

"Of course he was. I swear, those two … anyway, go on …"

"Danny was grilling Matt. He got the idea something was going on, too. And Matt fessed up. It turns out that Matt's wanted to ask me to marry him for about six years," she bawled.

"That bastard! How dare he fall in love with you and contemplate proposing and … wait. Why is this bad?" Jordan asked.

"Evidently, he's changed his mind. He thinks I don't want to marry him because he's not Christian, and so he's unilaterally decided to rob me of the opportunity to tell him one way or another.

"He's given up on us, Jordan. All these years. On and off, even on days when I was so angry at him that I could rip his eyes out. Even when I was dating someone else, I'd know that Matt was the one for me. I just thought, 'All I have to do is make him see that I'm the only one for him. It'll always be me,'" Harriet said plaintively. "And just when I thought that things were going my way, I find out …

"I find out that he's always thought I was the one for him. He just never thought he was the one for me!" Harriet finished fiercely, angry again, moods fluctuating between anger and sorrow. "Some stupid … stupid shit about how he'd never be able to marry me because he's Jewish or something. So he's getting ready be all gentlemanly and dump my ass so I can find someone else. But I don't want anyone else," she sobbed.

"Oh Harriet," Jordan said, patting her shoulder awkwardly. "Mallomar?" And they sat in silence for a while.

"You know Harriet," Jordan continued after 10 minutes of silence had passed. "It occurs to me that as an executive as opposed to an actress/comedienne/whatever you classify yourself as, I might have a different perspective to your problem.

"Instead of getting him to see that he should propose, I don't understand. Why can't you just tell him you want to get married? Think about this—we end them ordering them around anyway. Why not just set a date and just tell him to show up?"

"What?"

"You … propose … to him … You're a liberated woman, Harriet. Don't sit here waiting for him to propose. Go out and grab him. And don't take no for an answer!

"By the way, you're out of Mallomars," she said, as she dusted off her hands and walked out.

"I am? Damnit!"

* * *

"Harri?" Matt asked, letting himself into his home. "We have to ta—Wha—what the hell?" he finished.

His house—usually brightly lit and furnished in a spartan manner, had been transformed, with lights dimmed, candles flickering throughout.

"Hey stranger," Harriet said, walking in from stage left.

"Harriet," he said, breath catching in his throat as he looked at her up and down. Hair down, deep brown eyes soft and inviting, wearing his favorite dress—a classic shimmering burgundy strapless gown that brought out her eyes and highlighted her slim, elegant curves. "Wha ??"

"I thought that since we had to cancel last night, we'd make up for it in spades," she said, taking his hand as she led him to a dining table laid out with dinner. "Indian food. From that place I took you to in June that you liked so much."

Oooh boy, Matt thought. She's not going to make this easy. Heck, I can't even keep focused right now …

Just then, his stomach growled, reminding him that he'd skipped lunch today.

"Hungry?" Harriet asked playfully. "So am I. Come on, let's eat. And then I want to talk to you about something. Nothing bad," she added.

The meal passed quickly, with each using witty banter to ease their escalating nerves. Finally, after both had put their forks down, they looked at each other.

"So Harriet"

"Matthew—"

"Let me go first," Harriet said, getting up from the table and walking toward his chair. Taking both his hands, she sank gracefully down in front of him. "It occurs to me that all these years, and all these months, you've been the one making concessions to me. Going to church with me, coming with me to see my brothers over the holidays, heck, most of the time we eat at the restaurants I choose for us …"

"Harriet, I—"

"Let me finish, Matthew, this is important. I don't think I've let you know how much I appreciate this. How I appreciate you, and how much I need ... No, that's not right—not need—want you in my life. I don't need you in the sense that I couldn't happy without you—it's that I want you with me always, because you make happiness worthwhile—and better. Do you understand me, Matthew?

"I choose you. Always. And to get that into your thick skull," she said, her voice trembling at this last, "I have something for you."

And seemingly from out of nowhere, she produced a simple jeweler's box and flicked it open. Inside was a simple platinum band, with filigreed engravings etched around its circumference.

"Harriet?"

"I'm asking you to marry me, Matt."

She nodded at the question in his eyes. "Yes, Matt. I think it's time. I think it's well past time, and I don't see why we should wait any more. What do you say?" Matt looked at her for what seemed like hours, gazing into her eyes as she smiled tentatively and hopefully.

"Wait. Wait here," he said as he sprang from the chair, almost knocking her over as he sprinted from the room.

"Did I scare him off?" she wondered in a brief moment of panic. "Did I do it wrong? Maybe I—"

"Better yet, you come with me," he said, running back in, grabbing her hand, and sprinting toward his study.

Once there, he threw the framed print of the Marx Brothers off the wall to reveal a safe. Tapping in a six digit combination—her birthday, she noted—he wrenched the safe open and grabbed the box sitting on top.

"I have something for you, too," he said, opening his box. "It's not new—well, the stone is new, but the ring was my grandmother's … Anyway, well, I mean … that is … I'll wear yours if you wear mine?" he finished smiling.

"Really?"

"That's a yes … to your question, Harriet. To everything. You're everything to me, Harri. You always have been. And it would make me very happy to be your husband.

"But uh, don't think that just because you pulled a role reversal and proposed that I'm going to take your name mmph"

"Matthew," Harriet said, her hand on his mouth. "You talk too much sometimes, you know that?"

And she kissed him.

"By the way, I overheard your conversation with Danny in your office this afternoon. And after I'm done being this ecstatic, I'm going to be very, very angry with you, Matt."

"Yes ma'am," he said meekly.

"Unless, of course, you find some way of making it up to me before then …" she drawled as she reached for his belt … an impish grin on her face.


End file.
